


Locked Up Corners

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1950s, and England goes to visit America to discuss policy procedures - only to discover that she won't find any help there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Up Corners

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ April 23, 2010. 
> 
> It was going to be delicious femslash porn but then I got lazy. Also,I know the descriptions of fem!USUK runs counter to what "canon" provides, but I don't like the designs all that much - England is totally a bun gal and how can America NOT have Texas?

She found her in her kitchen. It’d taken her a few hours to find the proper house—they’d all looked the same and as was a typical American fashion, she’d failed to give England adequate directions to find her in the suburbs of the metropolitan area. It didn’t help that every house looked exactly the same in every cul-de-sac, all cookie-cutter and white with a blue door.   
  
But when England did find her, she was slumped over an oven, staring into it, looking haggard and tired, not nearly as boisterous and obnoxious as England would have expected.   
  
“America,” she greeted. “You should answer your door, you damn fool.”   
  
America stiffened up and lifted her head, blinking at England over the rims of her glasses, her hair pulled back into a bun, each little fly-away hair pinned down with bobby pins. She seemed almost painfully reserved, and England silently thought it didn’t suit her—though she would never say it out loud and risk an obnoxious diatribe from the young nation.   
  
“Oh…” she said, and the words were just as reserved as her slumped posture. She straightened herself now, though, closing the oven door and smoothing her hands over her dress and apron, moving a hand to clutch at the string of pearls around her neck, as if unused to having anything around her neck. She blinked owlishly at England, with wide blue eyes. “England…?”   
  
“Who else would it be, daft girl,” England said with a roll of her eyes as she strolled forward towards the other nation, hands on her hips and frowning. America sighed as she approached, giving England her customary lopsided smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.   
  
“Hi,” she chirped, walking over towards England meeting her halfway. “Boy, am I sure glad to see you!”   
  
“And why is that?” England asked, always suspicious.   
  
America shrugged. “I’m cooking a roast. It’s boring.”   
  
“A roast,” England drawled and looked over at the oven.   
  
America opened it a crack so she could see the roast inside. “Ta da,” she said, though she did not sound terribly excited, as she normally might have about any other accomplishment she succeeded in. “Probably better than any roast you could ever do.”   
  
“Don’t—be quiet, twit,” England snapped and smacked her hand against the back of the girl’s head. She yelped and ducked out of the way, face almost coy. England grumbled under her breath and strolled around the kitchen, inspecting it. The entire house was scarily clean, something she never expected from America, who normally was a right slob.   
  
“So, what brings you here anyway? Did you find this place okay?”  
  
“Your directions were utter rubbish,” England said, staring down into the spotless sink before turning to face America, who was watching her benignly. “And I’m here to discuss a few things about the—”  
  
“Government things?” America interrupted, and seemed utterly fascinated with the patterns of flowers curling across her apron. She fiddled with the strings for a moment.   
  
“Yes,” England said. “And I’ll thank you not to interrupt m—”  
  
“I wouldn’t know anything about government things,” America interrupted again, turning away towards the oven and staring down at it, as if willing the roast to hurry up and be finished. She clenched her hands together, bowing her head slightly.   
  
England frowned. Something was wrong. “America…?”   
  
“They don’t tell me anything,” America said at last, “Not anymore.”   
  
“What are—”  
  
“Most of those—the men that I worked with, they don’t even know who I am. Not really. They all think I’m some kind of—of secretary,” America muttered, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. “They talk down to me and pinch my—well. They don’t even realize who I _am_ so why would they tell anything of importance to a _woman_?”  
  
“America…” England began, walking over to her now and reaching out a hand to cup her elbow. America shifted, looking at England through her fringe, frowning slightly. England frowned back. “They aren’t discussing any policy or actions with you?”  
  
America shook her head. “Boss says I should focus on proving I’m a better housewife than Russia.”   
  
“You—what?” England asked, mystified.   
  
“But it’s—it’s damned stupid,” America hissed, looking away. “Everything’s too clean and I hate cooking—and how can I be a housewife if there isn’t a husband to cook for or—whatever.”  
  
“A husband.”   
  
“Yeah,” America said. She looked at England, licked her lips and looked away. “Everyone here thinks I’m some kind of strange spinster or nun or… or something. I can tell, they look at me funny and I _hate_ it. They don’t even realize who the fuck I am—”  
  
“America, calm down.”  
  
“I’m perfectly calm, England,” America said, but her tense shoulders betrayed her. “You know,” she said, after a pause, “In a lot of ways I miss the war.”  
  
“America—”  
  
“It’s a bad thing to say, I know, but fuck. At least back then I was actually doing something—they _‘let’_ me do something—fuck, as if I need their permission—but I was doing something, and was involved and able to do things and help others… like you,” America said, glancing up at England before looking away again and sighing. She drummed her fingers against her arms and then looked down at England’s hand, still holding onto her elbow.   
  
“They really aren’t telling you anything?”   
  
America shook her head. “Haven’t you heard, England? It’s a man’s world—my delicate little mind won’t be able to handle it.” She snorted. “Never mind I’ve fought in more wars than any of them—I was fighting in ‘em before they were even _born._ Bastards.”   
  
England was about to open her mouth to speak but then the timer went off.   
  
“Oh,” America said, slumping slightly, lackluster. “My roast is ready. Would you like some?”  
  
“… If you want,” England said at last, dropping her hand away and stepping away as America smoothed out the wrinkles in her apron, collected the oven mitts to take the roast out of the oven with. She set it down on the stove with a loud clang and slammed the oven door shut with a kick of her foot.   
  
England could tell it was annoying America, being dismissed when she was older and stronger than all of her citizens—her strength was their combined strength, her own resources and sense of justice, everything—and contained to a cookie-cutter house. It probably killed her, to be in the middle of suburbia where she was too different to be accepted but similar enough to make America feel unlike herself. America bent over the roast, dusting her hands off and staring at it for a long moment before sighing, deeply, and standing on the tips of her toes to open the cupboard and leaf around for plates, pushing aside some pots and pans as she went.   
  
“… Are you alright?” England asked at last. She knew America—England couldn’t just come out and demand what was wrong, she would have to wait for America to admit to it herself. Stubborn girl.   
  
“What do you mean?” America asked, casual.   
  
“Being out here like this?”  
  
America frowned. Then she shrugged, not looking at England. “I have to show I’m a better housewife than those damned commies, right? I have a foldable ironing board—you think she has one? Ha.”   
  
“An ironing board,” England repeated.  
  
“Yeah,” America said, tensing slightly. “It’s _awesome._ ” Her voice sounded far too withering, far too sarcastic. “How could I possibly want anything more than blouses to iron and dresses to iron and pants to iron—but those are my husband’s pants, heaven forbid _I_ put on pants, never mind that I fought in a fucking war.”  
  
“America…” England began.   
  
“You want your roast or not?” America snapped.  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you take this out on me, you fool.”  
  
America slumped, staring moodily down at her roast.   
  
“I’m being a _proper_ citizen, England,” America muttered. “My patriotic duty! Patrolling the house, where I _belong._ ”   
  
“I see,” England said, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter. “It’s good you feel satisfied, then.”  
  
America didn’t answer right away, and slowly her eyes slanted upwards to stare at England, blue eyes wide, face prim and hair patted down and controlled. Her dress was pressed, probably freshly ironed, and she looked the very picture of the domestic goddess. But the smile on her lips didn’t reach her eyes, and even the smile wasn’t really a smile, more of a painful grimace.   
  
“Satisfied?” America parroted.   
  
England nodded, testing the waters. She licked her lips, then bit it between her teeth. This seemed too unconfident, however, and she stopped, crossing her arms and regarding the younger nation.   
  
“Is that really how you feel?”   
  
“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do.”   
  
England moved closer to America, gripping the younger nation’s chin between her fingers and forcing her face up. America’s eyes widened, staring at England.   
  
They stared heavily at one another.   
  
“How long have they been keeping you from the loop?”  
  
“A few years now,” America said with a shrug. “It’s been a while since you visited—are you going to tell me about what you wanted to discuss? It’d be nice, to hear state secrets. Special relationship and all that, ha ha. Do you think people would still call it that if they knew who you and I were?”   
  
“What? Women?”   
  
America grinned at England, but it wasn’t a happy grin, it didn’t suit America’s face. It looked like something more akin to Russia. She picked up a wooden spoon from the counter and tapped it against England’s nose with a forced giggle.  
  
“Don’t be _silly,_ England,” America drawled, her voice raising an octave in mockery. “I wonder if they’d care if they found out that their precious country didn’t have a cock—but it’d probably help them to know that Russia doesn’t have one either.”   
  
“Being spiteful to someone like me won’t help you at all, America. I can’t change what your government does.”  
  
“No, of course not. I’m just being _hypothetical,_ England,” America chirped, voice strained. She turned away. “I would never question my government! They know exactly what they’re doing! Questioning them would make me no better than those commies. Hey! Better dead than red, right?”   
  
England frowned at her and crossed her arms.  
  
America grinned.   
  
“So you’re really content here?” England asked, in a voice that clearly betrayed that she didn’t believe a word of what America was saying.   
  
America shrugged. “It… isn’t that bad.”   
  
“Well,” England said, and knew that America was lying, and poorly. “I’m glad that you’re happy, then. If you’re satisfied and content here, then there’s nothing that can be done. I’m sure you could find someone who would be willing to have you cook and clean for him. Then you’d truly have a purpose.”  
  
“Are you jealous of my hypothetical husband, England?” America asked.  
  
“Absolutely not,” England snapped, and glared. She turned away. “There’s no more business to discuss here, if you’re content with how things are now. I’ll go find someone I can discuss this with.”   
  
“England, wait,” America said as England took a step towards the front door.  
  
England stopped, and waited. America walked up beside her. She turned England so that they were facing one another. England held her gaze idly.   
  
“Stay at least for the roast,” America said. “It’s only proper, for a hostess such as myself.”   
  
England said nothing. America smiled at her, that same, strained smile that England hated, simply because it did not look like the girl she knew.   
  
“Don’t look at me like that,” England muttered, turning her gaze away. “This isn’t like you.”   
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“To be okay with this.”   
  
“What…” America began, and then her smile seemed to take on a more deranged nature to it, manic almost—trying to convince herself more than she was convincing England. She turned away, walking towards the cupboard again to find the plates. “Of course, it’s a woman’s proper place, England. Proper… decent, clean, upstanding citizen. I’m doing my patriotic duty—let the men do all the public work, my domain’s the private, isn’t it? Look at how clean my house is, look at how perfect my roast is.” She waved her hands haphazardly around towards the clean floor, the spotless countertops, the sparkling windows. She waved her hands at the roast, sitting in its pan on the stovetop. The manic grin didn’t settle well for England and she straightened her back slightly. “I’ll show Russia—I bet that fat commie doesn’t even know how to use an ironing board, that stupid woman.”   
  
“America…”  
  
“Yes, England?”   
  
“You’re better than this,” England said at last. “If you hate something—why would you just accept it?”   
  
“I don’t hate it,” America said, but it seemed to be grit out, forced out. “And… better than what?”   
  
“You said it yourself—you’ve fought in more wars and lived longer than all the people in your country.” England walked up beside her, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. “I haven’t seen you in years, America—but you were better, then. You took what it was you wanted.”  
  
“… Not everything,” America whispered, staring up at the cupboard.   
  
“Well. Maybe you should start.”  
  
“You just like to criticize everything my government and I do, England,” America muttered.  
  
“Would you listen to yourself?” England demanded.  
  
America shrugged.  
  
“Well.” England paused, staring at America, then turning away. “If you’re happy, there’s nothing that can be done about it. It’s good that you’re happy, America. That you’re okay with this—that you love it, even.”   
  
Something must have been in England’s tone because the manic grin slipped from America’s face and she stared at England with a painfully neutral expression a moment, calculating and strangely calm. And then something must have snapped, because she suddenly wrenched back, still on the tips of her toes where she was trying to dig around and find plates, but instead only grabbed a pot and a pan in each hand.   
  
“I hate it!” she screamed, suddenly, loud and ear splitting as she whipped around on her heels and threw the pots and pans across the room. They slammed against the wall and clattered to the ground. America grabbed more and threw them, the force of her throwing leaving indents on the wall and denting the pans as they slammed to the wall and then the ground.   
  
“America—”  
  
“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” she shrieked, flinging the cupboard door open, wrenching the china from their shelves and chucking them across the room. They shattered, chunks of destroyed china raining down on the floor and England flinched.  
  
“America—!”   
  
“ _I hate it!_ ” she screamed, thrashing slightly as she ripped the cupboard from the wall, holding it high above her head and throwing it effortlessly towards the opposite wall. China and the wooden cupboard shattered and splintered, scattering across the floor. She didn’t seem she was satisfied, however, and moved to rip more appliances and kitchenware into her rampage.   
  
England moved forward swiftly, grasping her wrists and pinning her against the counter. America screamed, a litany of ‘I hate it!’ and not seeming to realize that England was there anymore. Tears were in the corners of her eyes, her face red and blotched with her rage, the rage she’d tried so hard to suppress. The longing, the betrayal, the anger in her eyes was evident, even as they widened and roved around the kitchen, searching for anything else she could destroy.   
  
“America!” England shouted over the girl’s tirade. She shook the girl, gripping her wrists and using her hips to pin the girl down, even as she struggled—England was still weak, though, still so weak from the wars from the decline of her empire and the young superpower wrenched free, moving to stomp away. “Wait!”   
  
America froze, swiveling her head around and staring at England as if staring straight through her.   
  
“America, wait.”  
  
“I hate it, England,” America said, seeming to calm slightly, though still shaking. She curled around herself, curling her arms over her body and gripping, bent over slightly. She shook her head from side to side. “God, I hate it.”   
  
“You need to calm down,” England commanded.   
  
“Why— _Why?_ ” she demanded. “What—do you want me to be just like everybody else, too, England? Do you like me this way, proper and inoffensive and—and just, not even—all I am is a dress wearing a face—is that what you want me to be?”  
  
“You’re being irrational, I already said that—”  
  
“At least I still have a thought of my own!” she shouted and turned away to storm off into another room to cause more destructive havoc. “Fuck you, England.”   
  
“America, wait,” England said, grasping the girl’s wrist and tugging. She tripped backwards, losing her footing and slamming her hip painfully against the corner of a counter. She hissed low in her throat, flinching.   
  
“Fuck,” she cursed.   
  
England did not apologize, though when she steadied the girl her hand pressed against the younger nation’s hip in silent apology. America glared at her, then looked down in shame.   
  
“America, I,” England began. “I—you’re being irrational, and I hate you when you’re like this, loud and obnoxious and destructive.”   
  
America whipped her head up to keep shouting but England cut her off.  
  
“But the way you are now—in this place… it doesn’t suit you. I hate that more.”   
  
America stared at her with wide eyes. She hadn’t expected such words from England, and admittedly England hadn’t expected to say them. They blinked at one another and America opened her mouth, licking her lips in thought as she tried to think of words—but for the first time in a long time, it seemed as if the girl had been struck speechless.   
  
Then she slowly shook her head, dropping her gaze down.   
  
“I could be doing something,” she said. “I could be helping fight the reds—or helping with Japan or—or something. Something! I could be doing something useful instead of doing laundry and cooking and—shit! As if Russia fucking cares if I can cook a roast better than she can! I used to be a pilot! I was a solider! I was—”  
  
“I know,” England reminded, cupping the girl’s cheeks, trying to calm her down before she could start raving again. “I was there.”   
  
“Yeah… we fought together,” America whispered, and then clenched her eyes shut because she refused to let herself cry. She swallowed thickly and when she spoke, her words were wavering. “I hate being here, England. I want to be out there—I want to do something, I don’t want to be forced into this—this stupid… convention. All I want, all I wanted was—”  
  
“I know,” England murmured, petting away the fringes of hair that had fallen from the girl’s bobby pins. “Shh… I know, my dear.”   
  
“England…” America began, biting her lip and still working through the choking emotion constricting her throat.   
  
England gave her a slightly strained smile, not sure what to say. The girl was obviously upset. America kept her head bowed, and then slowly stepped forward, closer, resting her forehead against England’s shoulder. England stiffened up, but didn’t pull away, just let the other nation rest there against her.   
  
“But…” America said at last, shifting slightly so her breath wafted over England’s neck before the girl pulled away. England felt as her throat was too tight now. “But,” she repeated, “They aren’t really keeping me here, are they? They can’t stop me—I’m stronger than them, fuck, they’re part of me. They couldn’t stop me even if they really wanted to, right?”   
  
“Well…” England began and found that she really didn’t have anything to say.   
  
“They can’t keep me here,” America said, perking up, the manic look flashing in her eyes again as she straightened. “They can’t tell me what to do—I do what I want.”   
  
England frowned.  
  
America turned her gaze up at England, staring at her. They stared at one another for a long moment before America slowly lifted her hands to her own hair.   
  
America yanked at her hair, wrenching each bobby pin from her hair and with them strands of her hair. She yanked her hair free from the bun and the slightly wavy, messy hair fell around to frame her face, wide with terror, anger, and frustration. She threw the bobby pins and clip across the room to clutter upon the china-covered floor.   
  
And then she dove at England, who gave a slight squawk of protest as America’s hands found England’s hair, pulled the clip and let her long blond hair tumble around her shoulders.   
  
“America—what—” she began before America slammed her mouth against England’s.   
  
Their teeth clacked together loudly and England hissed in pain, a soft curse that was quickly swallowed by America’s overly eager mouth.   
  
“Shit—America!” England cried, wrenching her mouth away, her breath labored. America followed after her, desperately, trying to reclaim her mouth. England pressed her hands against the girl’s shoulders, pushing her away slightly. “Wait, stop, you idiot. Do you even know what you’re doing?”   
  
America’s hands were still in England’s hair and she nodded her head, taking one hand away to wrench the pearls from around her neck so that they clattered across the floor as well. Her hand lingered at her throat, bare now, and she swallowed. England stared and only jolted a little when the hand still in her hair curled around her head and brought her up. When America kissed her this time, it was much softer.  
  
“Why are…” England began when America pulled apart.   
  
“I,” America began, leaning over England until England was pressed on her back on the (blessingly clean) kitchen floor of America’s house. England stared up at her as America straddled her, her dress riding up as she ripped her apron off and threw it over her shoulder with utter disgust. She continued, “I am doing what I should have done years ago and it’s going to be highly improper, offensive, and dirty. And you are going to like it.”   
  
England frowned up at her. “You’re being irrational.”   
  
America was already pulling at the buttons of her dress, revealing her cleavage inch by inch. England didn’t deny to herself that she was staring, holding her breath as the buttons moved down past her breasts and down over her navel. Nor could she deny that she was utterly failing at ignoring the way America was rubbing down against her, and she shifted her leg up slightly so America was balanced on her thigh and still swiveling her hips.   
  
“Maybe,” she decided, then shook her head. “But I don’t think so. This is—England, I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy for not wanting to be like everybody else, am I? I—I can’t be, can I?”   
  
England looked up at her, licked her dry lips and swallowed around the cotton that seemed to have lodged into her throat. She watched America undo the last of her buttons and pull her dress away so that she was almost naked and just sitting _on_ England and she couldn’t breathe and it hurt to look up at her.   
  
“… The windows are open, idiot,” England said at last, lifting her hands to grip her rounded hips, ceasing her writhing and staring up at her with her lips parted. “And I am on your floor.”  
  
“At the very least it’s a clean floor,” America said with a sniff and then leaned closer. “And let the neighbors see, I couldn’t give less of a fuck.”  
  
England gave a soft sigh.   
  
“Well, I suppose it was good I came alone today,” England mused as America writhed against her, trying to edge ever closer. England tried to pretend she wasn’t breathless.   
  
“Is it improper to say I’ve wanted you since the war?” America asked, ignoring England’s statement.   
  
“Yes,” England said, snippety and ignoring the way her chest stirred and her body throbbed as the words connected with her brain.   
  
“Good,” America said and ducked down to whisper against England’s lips. “Then, ‘I’ve wanted you since the war,’ England.”  
  
“Which war?” England breathed which hadn’t been what she’d meant to say at all—damn her heart.   
  
America didn’t answer, bending down to kiss at England’s throat before England pushed her away, glaring up at her. “America,” she warned, “I can’t say I’m particularly thrilled to be part of your little emotional crisis, but I have no intention of being used.”   
  
America shook her head, looking alarmed a moment.   
  
She pulled away, though kept straddling England’s hips. England felt her breathing trying to return to normal but failing, her heart hammering against the inside of her ribs. They stared at one another.   
  
“… I’m not,” America said at last.   
  
“Hm,” she breathed.   
  
America frowned. “Hey—remember during the war, when you were trying to redress your wounds. Not the first time, when you were still really hurt—but after a few months when they were starting to scar over, and I helped you?”  
  
“What about it?” England muttered.   
  
“I thought you were really attractive then—and I wanted you,” America said, crossing her arms triumphantly and looking down at England, waiting for her reaction.   
  
England felt her face burn hot. “That is completely inappropriate.”   
  
“I know,” America said with a grin now. “But I mean it. And I didn’t do anything, anyway.”  
  
“Yes, I know,” England said with a roll of her eyes. “I would have noticed if you had.”   
  
“Do you still have the scars?” America asked.  
  
England stared at her, the blush receding from her ears though still staining her cheeks red. “Yes.”   
  
“I have scars now, too,” America said, pulling back to press a hand over a scar stretching over the expanse of her flat stomach. “How many of my boys would think that was ugly, I wonder?”   
  
England frowned at the scar. “If they do, they’re foolish.”  
  
She glanced up at America and found the girl giving her a soft look, unreadable, hair flopped over one eye a moment before she blew it away from the corner of her mouth.   
  
England had to look away.   
  
“Hey, England?”   
  
“What now?”   
  
“I’m not using you,” America said.   
  
England sighed, closing her eyes.   
  
“Don’t you want me, too?” America asked.   
  
“I…” England began, feeling her blush return. She kept her eyes clenched shut so she wouldn’t see America’s expression when she said, “Of course I do.”   
  
It didn’t matter if her eyes were closed, though. She could feel the way America was beaming now, the way her body seemed to relax over her, and she sighed, a little happy. England’s heart raced. There was a hushed silence between them before England cleared her throat and finally opened her eyes.   
  
England refused to look her in the eye as she lifted a hand and traced the white line of the scar on her stomach. She felt America’s breath catch.  
  
“Anyone who thinks you’re ugly is clearly not paying attention,” she said at last.   
  
“You too,” America said, not sounding quite as unhappy as she had when England first arrived. “Bushy eyebrows and all.”  
  
“I’ll kill you,” the older nation growled.   
  
America laughed—and it was refreshing to hear.   
  
“I think you’re wearing too many clothes, England.”   
  
“You—Christ,” England breathed as America began tugging England’s dress up over her body, fingers grazing over her skin.   
  
“Arch your back,” America commanded and England lifted her arms over her head and arched, letting America slip the dress and its slip off over her body so that they were both left in their undergarments.   
  
England frowned at her. “I see you truly intend to be indecent, then.”  
  
“Will you be indecent with me, England?” America breathed.  
  
England closed her eyes. “Fool. I’m still here, aren’t I?”  
  
America didn’t say anything but England felt her shift. When England did open her eyes, America was smiling down at her, her face crumbled in gratitude and happiness. It was the happiest England had seen her in a while, and she felt her chest constrict. America leaned down so her body was pressed flush up against England’s, their legs wrapping together and America’s hands lifting to cup England’s face, brushing aside her loose hair.   
  
“… Your hair does look much better down,” England admitted after a moment and had to look away, frowning at the mess of pots, pans, broken china, bobby pins, and pearls scattered across America’s otherwise clean floor.  
  
America was still grinning and leaned up to bite England’s bottom lip into a kiss. When she pulled away, eyes bright, she said, “Yours too.”  
  
“Don’t be a fool,” England said with a disdainful sniff.   
  
America was still grinning, still looking beside herself with happiness. England closed her eyes and allowed herself a small smile for a moment and felt America’s hands pass over her body.   
  
“Well,” she said after a moment. “I seem to recall someone was going to be offensive and indecent. Thus far you’ve been positively tame, America. I suggest you remedy that immediately.”   
  
“You got it, baby,” America whispered against her mouth and went about doing just that.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The 1940s and wartime found American women with more freedom than previously expected—with all the men going to war, women were going to work and leaving the house. But by the 1950s, conventionalism had won over and women were expected to return to the home, not work, and focus on being good wives and mothers.
> 
> \- Technically during the war I don’t think women would have been soldiers or pilots. But America’s special cause she’s the country. Or something. Yes.
> 
> \- During the cold war, this aforementioned conventionalism was rooted in “combat” of the Cold War. There was something called the Housewife Wars, which involved housewives in the USA and Russia proving they were better and more equipped with the better appliances and kitchenware, thus superior to their ideological counterparts.
> 
> \- America’s mention of helping Japan refers to the aid USA gave Japan after dropping the two bombs in the 1940s. Japan was in the midst of economic hardship and social hardship due to the disintegration of the empire.
> 
> \- “Better dead than red” is a legitimate phrase during McCarthyism… delicious red scare, you make for wonderful crazy. Also, it’s never overtly stated here, only hinted at, but the red scare dealt with communists but also with gay people—usually homosexual males, but also homosexual females (less likely, as women obviously do not have a sex drive and cannot be sexual deviant like men can!!!). It’s known as the lavender scare, and more men in the government lost their jobs during the 1950s for accusations of homosexuality than they did for accusations of communism. The more you know ~*~


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